


Something Like Warmth

by clicktrack_heart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fantasizing, Hannistag, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very unofficial Hannistag prequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hannistag](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/219679) by FlyingRotten. 



> I love [FlyingRotten’s](http://flyingrottenhannistag.tumblr.com/) Hannistag AU so much, the art is lovely and gorgeous. It inspires me every time I see it and just wanted to do a little tribute to this beautiful world. 
> 
> The wonderful [weconqueratdawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weconqueratdawn/pseuds/weconqueratdawn) edited this.

Hannibal repressed a shiver. The cold was coming sooner than expected. His pointed ears drooped mournfully. His brindle coat had not thickened enough yet, but it would soon. 

He did not like winter. The change of temperatures had an uneasy effect on him, making his loneliness seem somehow more stark. Though Hannibal rarely spoke to the other creatures he came across, he liked the presence of others, even if seeing them only made it more apparent how different he was. 

Soon most creatures would be hibernating, if they weren’t already. 

He glanced around his territory, listening to the emptiness of it, the dry rustle of the gathering wind. The trees were skeletal ladders to a barren purple sky. He thought of the field of sunflowers miles away, the aurelian petals tarnished and withered on each stalk. 

Hannibal’s fingers twitched, and he arranged his bed of sticks and foliage into a tighter space without even thinking about what he was doing. His mind was elsewhere. 

His name was Will. 

He had seen the young stag on three separate occasions now. 

I. 

The first time, Hannibal had been resting under a nearby oak. The sun had been hot on his head, his lips past parched. 

He had traveled for miles that day, for no other reason other than a strange compulsion to move, to wander the deep, hidden forests below his territory in the mountains until he reached a stage of exhaustion that would keep his sleep dreamless. 

Sudden movement drew his eye. He traced the flutter to its origin, to a passing view of a young stag framed by gold sunflowers. The stag was barely visible through the long green stems of the blossoms. Hannibal’s breath had caught at just a glimpse of slender antlers, the youthful curve of his face.

Hannibal craned his neck, peeling his spine from the tree to see more. 

He was rewarded. 

There was a blur of fleeting details, the pensive sweep of a mouth, a hint of bright eyes, and then the stag was gone -- having barely stirred the sweet grass and flowers. 

Gone, that is, in the physical sense.

The moment in the valley lasted days longer in Hannibal’s consciousness, nearly painful in its ephemeral beauty. The stag lost in a sea of sunflowers, unaware of his admirer.

Hannibal had, of course, looked for the stag again. But despite his keen nose and hunting prowess, the stag proved to be incredibly elusive. Hannibal did not have much to go on either. 

In the end, he could not locate him.

II.

It was fitting then, that the second time he saw the stag was another strange twist of fate, as random as a flip of a coin. 

Hannibal had again been roaming further and further from the heights of his mountain territory. His body was heavy in its weariness. 

It was late summer now, and a far more comfortable temperature for the long journeys he prefered. He had been traveling for hours when, through the trees, he heard voices. He slowed his steps, peering through verdant pines cautiously. A young stag’s back was to him, dark hair curled at the nape of his neck as if in beckoning invitation.

Hannibal’s stomach leapt to his throat. 

The stag! He moved forward without thinking, forgetting himself. 

But the stag was not alone. A silvered wolf was opposite him in the glade. 

Hannibal was forced to an abrupt halt, then a quick duck behind camouflaging trees and bushes. 

He listened to the low voices, the harsh quality to it. 

The young stag and silver-furred wolf were not having an amicable conversation. He frowned quietly. They were arguing, if Hannibal was honest. Though he couldn’t understand the fast, angry words, he understood the stag’s exasperation. The rigid lines of his body was a mirror to Hannibal’s own. 

“I'm not your helper anymore. I can barely take care of myself!” the stag said. 

“No one can do what you do,” the wolf said. “I need you.” 

The young stag looked away from the wolf pointedly. The moment of silence stretched on -- tense and taut. It was clear however, from Hannibal’s observations, that the wolf meant the stag no physical harm.

The wolf made an entreating gesture and the talking went on for some time. Finally, the stag showed the old wolf his middle finger and stalked off alone into the forest.

“Will!” the wolf barked in annoyance. His hackles rose in armor like ridges along his back. The stag didn’t turn, fading into the dark. 

Hannibal watched too. He remained hidden -- a growl of warning perched low in his diaphragm, vibrating almost inaudible in his throat. His ears had pinned to his head. 

The wolf didn't call after the stag a second time. Hannibal didn’t move. He wanted to ensure for himself that the wolf made no move to follow the stag’s path into the woods. 

Eventually, the wolf ended up stalking away in the opposite direction. From his hiding place, Hannibal gradually relaxed, muscle by muscle. Gentle leaves brushed against his bare shoulders. There was a strange pang in his chest.

Will. Will. Will.

He had a name for the beautiful stag now.

Hannibal had seen his face.

As the night came, he began his long journey back into the mountains and to his home. 

It was barely a home though, even after the months he had spent guarding the space. The stand of conifer trees he had chosen was shelter enough, the thin circle of sticks and leaves he had made as a bed, adequate for its purpose. He knew any home he made would never compare to what had been lost years ago.

If only he had a place to draw. The stag -- he wanted to capture his face before the memory faded into twilight. 

His fingers itched, the urge to sketch overtaking him -- he was light headed with it. It had been a long time since that feeling. Not since Mischa had he even imagined it. He had thought that part of himself dead, buried along with his family. 

Now Hannibal’s mind conjured a palette of paints. Each of the shades would be handmade by him, with the assistance of a few precious resources, of course. He would require a pure gold for the sunflowers that had seemed to crown the young stag, and a hue of ripe peach for the sweet flush of his cheeks.

Hannibal wanted to see him again more than anything.

III.

The third time he saw Will was the result of hard work, and a large amount of his time spent each day on tracking and hunting -- all of his senses, employed and engaged. He searched the places that he had seen Will before, and undertook intricate loops and winding paths outwards of each of the locations. 

It was only days later when Hannibal caught an intoxicating scent, floral and redolent. There was a hint of spice, cinnamon and cloves, a trace of copper. He breathed it in deeply, holding it in his lungs to savor each note. Somehow, Hannibal knew it was Will. It had to be. He followed the distinct aroma almost blindly, letting it lead him through valley and fields to a small cave some distance away. The scent of the stag was strong there, pulsing and hot. 

Will’s home. 

Hannibal had made it but the next steps felt unclear, muddled by his own nerves. He would try to speak to Will, perhaps, if he could decide what to say. Better still, bring him a gift of freshly killed meat. 

Court him. 

“Bonjour?” he called into the cave. His voice echoed into the darkness. It was empty. 

Disappointment pressed into his ribs with a brutish force. Will was not home. Was it the wolf? Were they together?

Hannibal scowled at the errant thought. Even if it was the truth, he would need to know for himself. There was still that heady scent to follow. He wouldn't lose it this time. 

He inhaled the aroma once more, letting it simmer into his senses, electrifying. Deeper into the woods he went, the air cooling as the sun dipped low behind the mountains. 

Eventually, Hannibal came to a small stream. The water glittered with the last beams of daylight.

The young stag, _Will_ , was bent over the rushing water, hands cupped to his face. Hannibal watched as he drank. He couldn’t help but notice the sensual movement of his supple throat. 

Heat rushed to Hannibal’s face.

When Will sat back on his haunches, he appeared lost in thought. He was lovely even with a frown. His curls fell across his smooth brow, his lips formed a tender bow. He was lithe, supple muscles and a narrowed waist. Hannibal wanted shameful things, to drink him up like the first and last taste of water in the desert. To consume every drop. 

As if sensing Hannibal, Will’s shoulders straightened. Warily, he looked around the dark woods that surrounded him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was something worried in his eyes, a minute change in his scent -- a cloying ripeness -- fear. 

“Who’s there?”

Will spoke out loud, his voice sharp but nervous. His tail and thighs twitched where he crouched, already ready to sprint and leap away.

“Whoever you are fuck face, you won’t like it if you make me mad.”

Hannibal didn’t know what a “fuck face” was but he knew he didn’t want to make Will mad. Judging by the tone of his voice, he already was. This wasn’t going to work to Hannibal’s advantage. 

With an aching chest, he sank back into the shadows, letting the dark swallow him once more.

*~*~*~*~

Then winter had come and Hannibal had not seen Will since.

The ache had permeated within his chest, giving way to an unbearable vacancy. 

He thought of Will again. He wanted to _feed_ him, protect him, surround him in beauty. He wanted to make him smile.

He wondered what a shared glance would feel like between them. To touch Will’s face so softly that he would lean into it, like a flower below the sun. 

Thinking of it made him feel undone, it was akin to plunging off of a cliff. A surging, wild sea of images and desires flooded him. Unconsciously, one hand slid down his flank to cup himself. His cock was stiff already, dampened with need. He fit his hand over his mouth as he growled, trying to muffle the sound. Base desires like these shamed him, but he was too lost to stop.

He couldn’t stop thinking of Will bent over at the stream, pink tongue lapping at the cool water pooled in his hands. 

Hannibal thought of chasing Will through the same lush fields and valleys that he had searched for him in during the last few days. Hannibal knew the stag was fast, and for a long time, he would always be one step ahead, just out of Hannibal’s reach. But Hannibal wouldn’t give up. He would run faster, launching his powerful legs to soaring heights. Will would pick up speed, his white tail twitching behind him, adrenaline fueling him. He would use anything he could against Hannibal -- tossing branches behind him, kicking dirt in Hannibal's face but Hannibal would keep coming. 

He stroked his cock in earnest, teeth pulling at his lips. He imagined that even though he would chase Will like a demon fleeing hell, that the stag wouldn’t be scared of him. Oh no -- not scared at all. Will would gloat over his shoulder, agile body curving and twisting out of Hannibal’s grasp the entire time. He would taunt Hannibal with a slow, promising smile. In response to the vision, Hannibal squeezed hard on his cock. Clear fluid leaked steadily from his weeping tip, slicking his fist. 

His fantasy didn’t leave him, even as he stroked himself harder and faster. He saw trees and sunflowers whirling past, felt his cloven hoofs skidding across the forest floor, trying to gain purchase. Will would evade him for as long as he could.

Finally, Hannibal would be left with no choice. He couldn’t let Will escape. 

He would lunge, crushing Will into a bed of soft earth. There would be a struggle -- Hannibal moaned quietly into his hand as he imagined it -- Will half heartedly trying to fight him off, their bodies only becoming more entwined. He rubbed his thumb lightly against the head of his cock, simulating the brush of Will’s dark fur.

The thick bulk of his body would easily pin the young stag, forcing his kicking legs to stillness. Hannibal would confine his wrists next, and then- then- he would press his panting mouth into his neck, inhale Will’s scent, licking up his jaw. Will would moan, thrusting against him, still trying to move impossibly closer. Hannibal would grab him tighter and he wouldn’t be able to stop, he would- oh- _bite_ Will -- sink his teeth deep into the soft part of his throat -- hard enough to break skin. Make his claim.

Hannibal gasped, he tugged his foreskin violently, again and again. He couldn’t hold back, even as his teeth bit into his own palm. His cock jerked, streaks of come pulsing hot against his stomach. 

For a while after, all Hannibal could do was lay there, his mess drying on his belly. 

The dim dark of his territory returned slowly, his vision clearing. His breath heaved in and out forcefully, as if he had actually chased Will the way he had imagined, with everything he had. It had felt so real.

Hannibal kept his face tucked into the crook of his arm. He was spent and tired and something like warmth was gloriously close.

He would know Will. He would see him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Send me stuff at [EmCWrites on Tumblr](http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/).


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